


No Coming Back

by dornfelder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I never knew it would be like that, and now that I do, I don’t know how I can live without it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Coming Back

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: whit_merule

_Two men on a king-sized bed where, just two days ago, a succubus fucked her former husband and drained him of his life until he died of exhaustion, face still contorted with the painful pleasure of his last orgasm._

_Moving as one, moaning, the taller one on all fours with his head bowed in shame, supporting his weight on his forearms, moaning with pain and guilt and trying not to feel the unbearable intimacy._

_Moving like they were born to do this, like they have been waiting their whole life to do this, with the one on top caressing his partner’s back, stroking his flanks, and licking and kissing his spine and mouthing along the line of a tense shoulder blade. Sucking kisses into the taut skin of the nape, just below the hairline, burying his face in thick, sweat-soaked hair. Thrusting slowly, circling his hips just right, going deep._

_Two men, the smell of sex and poison and desperation, tears on the other man’s face, labored breaths that sound like sobs, his cock leaking and dripping on the pillow. Beautiful, reluctant submission to a forbidden pleasure, knowing that there will be no denial anymore now that he has had this. Soft murmurs, whispers, not really meant for him. Just like that, baby, that’s it, come on. Let go, sweetheart, come on, God, you feel so good._

_Succumbing to a pleasure so intense it seems unreal, with a soft cry, eyes closing in despair.  
A few more thrusts, so gentle, then a drawn-out sigh and a hot flood of semen inside of him, hot enough to feel it with fire and dark magic and poison. _

_With the fever gone, exhaustion takes over. Blessed silence. Sleep, for one of them at least, while the other, sitting on the bed in an awkward position, hurting inside and out, listens to his brother’s deep breaths, covering his face with his hands and trying not to fall apart._

_There will be no coming back from this._

~~~~~

“So you called a hooker and paid her four hundred bucks to fuck me?” Dean says with his eyebrows raised to the hairline. “Wow, Sammy, that’s pretty hardcore.”

Sam scowls. “Shut up. You ought to be grateful, if I hadn’t had her number in my phone, you’d be dead by now.”

“Where did you get her number in the first place?” Dean sounds torn between surprise and reluctant admiration.

“You don’t want to know,” Sam says darkly. “Be glad she was able to get there in time.”

Dean shrugs and scrunches his nose. “Yeah.”

Sam hopes that he doesn’t do the math. Crappy roads, hardly deserving the name, and the next town about an hour away, five hundred inhabitants or fewer, right in the middle of nowhere. The succubus poison already deep in his blood when Sam managed to get free and stab the bitch with a three-edged blade. Not enough time for anyone to make it there in time, let alone a mysterious prostitute that Sam, or his soulless self, had encountered somewhere along the way, and that had miraculously trusted him enough to drive two-hundred miles or more to fuck his delirious brother in a goddamned succubus den smelling of rotten flesh.

Yeah, really plausible, and Sam’s carefully constructed fairytale relies on the fact that Dean was too far gone to realize how much time had passed, filled up with the succubus’ power. 

“You paid her four hundred bucks?” Dean inquires, focusing on one of the less important details, apparently affronted. “I mean, did she look at me at all? I’m hot, and I pretty awesome in the sack. I shouldn’t have to pay for it, ever. All the hot chicks love me. Wait, she was hot, right? Sam, tell me she was smokin’.”

Sam shrugs, amusement and annoyance slowly rising to the surface, exorcising pain and regret. It’s so typical for Dean to ramble on like that, making a show of being the biggest jackass in the world. “Didn’t look too bad, for, I don’t know, forty-five?”

Dean, shocked, exclaims “Dude! What the fuck!” and turns incredulous eyes towards him. “Tell me you’re kidding!”

“Yeah, really funny, Sam,” he adds bitterly when he notices how Sam isn’t even trying to suppress his smirk. “Bet she was hot. I just wish I could remember anything. Once in my life I get roofied and now I’ll never know what it was like.”

“I think that’s the point of being roofied,” Sam replies dryly. “To _not_ remember any of the juicy details.”

“Good point,” Dean says, and that’s where the conversation, luckily, comes to an end when a highway patrol car appears in the rear view mirror and they have other things to worry about. 

~~~~~

It all falls apart a few hours later on the road to Michigan when Bobby calls. Bobby, as opposed to Dean, can do the math just fine, and Sam doesn’t get the opportunity to talk to him first. He is driving – Dean is still beat and for once makes no attempt to hide it. 

Sam’s hands clench around the wheel, knuckles white, following Dean’s part of the conversation and seeing the freight train coming closer in slow motion. 

“Sam hired a hooker,” Dean offers, carelessly and with a smirk, as if it’s something funny. “Can you believe that?”

“Dunno. He says he knew her from, you know, when he went solo.”

There’s a pause, and with the volume on Dean’s phone cranked up to the limit, Sam realizes that Bobby, too, is silent. 

“Bobby?”

Sam doesn’t understand Bobby’s reply, just hopes that the old man, even if he smells something funny, will let it slide just this once.

“What do you mean?” Dean says, and Sam’s blood freezes cold.

Dean frowns. “Anything you’re not telling me here?” 

Sam tries to keep breathing in a regular pace, tries not to give anything away. 

“Yeah, right. See ya, Bobby.”

Dean hangs up, still frowning. But he doesn’t say anything, and Sam dares to hope nothing will come out of it. 

~~~~~

He should have known better.

Their dad’s journal lies on Sam’s bed when he returns to the motel room with new supplies of food and beer and rock salt. Dean is sitting at the table, legs spread out, feet firmly attached to the floor in worn-out boots, arms crossed at his chest. Eyes cold, expression furious. Daring Sam to speak up first.

Sam doesn’t need to look at the worn-thin, brittle pages to know that Dean looked up Dad's research on succubi. Doesn’t need to read about the short timeframe remaining from when a victim is infected with the poison, to when they will burn up in a sexual frenzy that can only be cured by intercourse. He’s read it all before, less than three days ago, on a deserted farm in Iowa where internet and cell phone reception were not available and he had to rely on Dad’s cacography and his own memory as a source of knowledge.

“So,” Dean says, enough steel in his voice to make Sam wince while he puts down groceries and car keys. “Anything you want me to know about, Sam?”

Sam looks up, feeling the exhaustion of someone much older than himself. He’s tired of hurting and hiding, and almost too numb to be afraid. “What do you want me to say?”

“Were you ever planning to tell me?”

Sam just shakes his head.

“What the fuck, Sam. I thought we were through with this crap. You can’t keep something like that from me, no way.”

“The same way you didn’t keep Amy from me?” Sam snaps back harshly, voice on the verge of breaking.

“Don’t you dare throw this back on me, Sam, or I’ll fucking beat the crap out of you.” Dean's not even yelling yet, dangerously calm, and he’s not joking.

 _You can try,_ comes to Sam’s mind, but resorting to violence wouldn't change anything, wouldn't solve anything. “Listen,” he starts wearily. “I could say that I’m sorry for not telling you. But I’m not. Dean, if it had been me, would you have wanted me to find out?”

And that shuts Dean up more effectively than any actual blow Sam could have dealt, because even after all these years, protecting Sam is still what Dean does twenty-four/seven.

Wishing for something stronger than beer Sam grabs two bottles from the sixpack, putting one on the table in front of Dean before walking over to the window. Salt line on the window sill, check, curtains drawn, check. He pulls them back a little to throw a cursory glance over the parking lot and make sure there's no one lingering outside their apartment. 

“So, whose ass was it on the line, Sam?”

Sam flinches and nearly drops the bottle. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, that,” Dean replies, sarcasm painfully thick in his voice. 

Sam gives a snort at that. “Believe me, if it had been yours, you’d know.”

This time Dean cringes visibly. “Was it – did I – ”

Sam gets what Dean’s asking, he really gets it, and it’s so far from the truth that he can’t stop a little laugh, broken. “No. No, no, I’m all right. It wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah, well, what _was_ it like, Sam?” Dean challenges him, voice hardening again.

 _Perfect,_ Sam thinks and swallows it down, trying not to let the words choke him. _Fucking perfect, and I never knew; I never knew it would be like that, and now that I do, I don’t know how I can live without it._

Sam can’t remember ever feeling this close, this connected to someone and it’s like the taste of ashes on his tongue. For Dean it was just physical release, but for Sam, who knows that Dean loves him more than anybody else, just not that way, it felt like anything he’d ever wanted. 

After being in love with Dean for so long he barely feels it anymore, the reality of it, what it means to want something impossible. He’s been living with the knowledge half of his life. It’s just something inevitable, like hunting, like living on the road without a home to come back to. Loving Dean, longing for him: not a big deal, just one of the many different ways in which Sam’s life is fucked up. And for the last few years, he’s been too busy just staying alive and sane to suffer of his unrequited feelings. It simply doesn’t bother him that much as long as living with Dean and being able to hunt without demons and angels and the Leviathans coming for them is enough to make the day count as a good one. 

Now, though, now that he knows what it’s like to be with Dean, he can’t cope anymore.

And he can’t ever tell Dean. _What was it like, Sam,_ like Sam could tell him that when Dean fucks, he treats you like the most precious thing in the world, tender, like you’re all that matters, and even for someone who is used to having a monopoly on Dean's attention most of the time it’s a heady rush.

Dean is still waiting for him to answer. Sam needs to say something to keep this whole fucked up situation from escalating to a point where he loses control. 

“Does it really matter?” he asks. “You want me to tell you all the gory details of our incestuous gay fuck?” He needs to scare Dean off with his crudeness, or a bad situation will become worse. “Listen, Dean, you don’t have to worry about anything. We got through with it, I’m not traumatized, so let’s just not talk about it.” 

It hurts to phrase it like that, like it doesn’t mean anything, like it didn’t break Sam's heart worse than Jessica’s death, Dad’s betrayal, his own failure to save Dean from hell. Like the last twelve years never happened, like he’s fourteen years old with a helpless crush on his brother that will never go away, and it’s the end of the world all over again.

“Bloody hell, Sam, you’re really giving me this crap?” Dean curses, losing all semblance of composure. He gets up from the table, pacing the room, hands balled into fists. “I want to know what happened. I don’t remember anything. Nothing, and don’t you tell me it’s better that way, you stupid asshole.”

Even if Sam knew what to tell him, how to tell him without giving himself away, he couldn’t bear it. These memories that come with the prize of heartbreak are _his_ , strange as it sounds. He knows it wasn’t really him Dean was fucking. A girl, most certainly, maybe someone special like Lisa, or Cassie, or Jo. Dean didn’t even touch Sam’s dick, probably didn’t notice it was there in the first place. He played Sam’s body expertly, but that doesn’t mean he was aware of the gender it belonged to. There wasn’t much foreplay anyway. Sam did what he could to prepare himself before he released Dean from the chains. When it comes down to the actual fucking, there’s only so much one can do to vary the parameters. 

Maybe that’s something he can offer Dean, something he can say with a casual shrug. _Dude, you thought I was a girl, it’s not like it makes you gay._

Only that it still hits too close to home, and he wouldn’t be able to keep his voice even.

“What do you remember?” Sam hears himself ask, using an approved stalling tactic. 

“Bitch tied me to her bed. Bled on me and I felt like burning up. Nothing like being turned into a vampire, though. Just hot. Most of what came after is a blur. She started to go down on me. With teeth, and at that time, it actually felt good.” Dean grimaces, a vain attempt of humor. “Next thing I know, I wake up in the morning and you tell me about some hooker.”

Sam rubs his forehead. “Yeah, well, I got out of the chains and had to fetch another knife from the Impala. When I broke into her bedroom, she had you tied to the frame and... let’s just say, it was a close call. Ten seconds later, she would have fucked you, and drained you when I tried to kill her.”

“Shit.”

“Pretty much, yeah. I stabbed her in the back and threw the corpse out of the window to get the stench out of the room.” Succubus flesh tends to rot a lot faster than normal. “You were pretty out of it, didn’t recognize me at all. I knew I’d never get anyone there in time, even if I had known who to call.”

“So you decided to do it yourself. Offered up you virgin ass for the taking.”

It’s hard to tell whether it’s contempt or curiousity in Dean’s painfully flat voice.

“I had to do something, Dean!” Sam can’t help it, a part of the frustration bleeds through with his words. A hint of the desperation he’d felt, of the helplessness when he realized there was nothing left but the one thing that had the potential to destroy them more effectively than hell ever could. “And even if I had actually known a hooker that could have been there in time and agreed to fuck you bareback – I’m not having you die of AIDS because I was too selfish to ‘offer up my ass’. It’s not as if you even knew I was a guy.”

“Oh? How’d you figure that?”

Sam shakes his head. “Just forget it, Dean. Why you wana about it at all is completely beyond me.”

Dean holds his hands up, a gesture of mock surrender. “I just don’t get it, Sam. Okay, so I’m grateful, thanks for saving my life, but what you did? It’s pretty fucked up. You shouldn’t have to...”

“You would have done the same.”

Dean scrunches up his nose. “I’m prissy about my ass, Sam, there’s no way I’d let anyone shove their dick up there, let alone you, you giant freak. Don’t think I haven’t seen what you’re packing.”

“Is it about the gay sex thing? Never thought you were a homophobe.” It’s not much of an insult, they both know Dean isn’t so narrow-minded. With the life they’ve been leading, gay and straight both are variations of normal. 

“It’s about my ass, Sam, and the way I don’t want anything going up there when it’s obivously designed to take a dump, not to take a cock.”

“Crass, Dean.”

“Stop bitching.”

They’re almost back to normal. If Dean can just let it go, Sam can do it, too, and he wants it, badly. Wants to pretend nothing ever happened. But Dean isn’t finished with their little heart-to-heart.

“So you decided to man up and help me out. How did that go, Sam? You said I didn’t hurt you. Would you even tell me if I did?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, though, because you didn’t hurt me.” He tries to make it sound convincing and, at the same time, to keep his true feelings hidden. “We fucked, we both survived, I count it as a win. In our books, at least.”

Dean laughs. “Our books are x-rated, dude.”

Sam blanches, thinking about Chuck and his Supernatural novels and takes a deep gulp from his bottle. “Let’s just hope that this will never, never appear in any book.”

“Amen to that,” Dean agrees, and that could be the end of it, except for how this is Dean, who’s always a little too bold, always a little too cocky to not screw things up in a major way. “So, was I any good?”

Sam spills his beer all over the room. “What?” 

Dean makes an unrecognizable gesture with his hand. “You know what I mean. Hot boy loving going on back there? Did I get you off at least?”

 _Vertigo._ Sam’s hand is shaking, clenching around the bottle so tight that it might break any moment. “What the fuck, Dean?”

“Relax, Sammy. Just kidding.”

Sam can’t stop the tremors. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, barely recognizing his own voice. “Shut up.”

Dean stares at him, surprised and worried, clearly trying to understand why Sam’s so riled up after keeping his calm for the truly important parts. One eyebrow rises, questioningly, and Sam knows he’s in deep shit now. The memories come back in a rush. 

_Dean, kissing him, moaning in his mouth through sweetly parted lips. Owning and destroying him all at once._

_Dean on top of him, hands roaming everywhere, and his cock like a brand against Sam’s thigh._

_Dean, licking sweat and salt from his collarbone, eyes dark and wide like he’s been drugged with morphine. Moving in a sinuous slide over him, the most beautiful thing in the world._

_Dean, Dean, Dean, overloading all his senses, and he’s a hunter, for God's sake, he should know better than to ever focus so completely on one thing alone._

“Sam?” Dean demands, trying to make sense of his reaction.

Dean never touched his cock, but Sam came nonetheless, just from getting fucked, from Dean being himself, so amazing nothing else can compare to him. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, worry apparent in his voice, and Sam just can’t stand it anymore. He needs to get out of here, and fast, needs to get his shit together and for Dean to stop looking at him like this.

Sam sets his bottle down on the window-sill forcefully, heading straight for the door. Dean tries to grab his shoulder in passing, but Sam, skittish, avoids the contact.

He nearly makes it. Hand on the handle, he’s about to open the door when all of a sudden one hundred and seventy pounds of a determined, pissed off Dean bang into him from behind, pushing him against the door and trapping him there.

In the ensuing scuffle Sam manages to wiggle around, even increase the distance between them. He knows his expression is anything but neutral when he meets Dean#s gaze. Dean’s hands end up on his shoulders, holding him in place. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“What did I do to you, Sam?” Dean asks, voice rough and low and all traces of flippancy gone.

Just like that, Sam loses it. He’s caught up in the moment, the last few days finally taking their toll on him, and his remaining defenses crumble, leaving him with nothing to hold on to. Doesn’t Dean deserve to know, he wonders, mind reeling. Doesn’t he deserve the truth after all? 

Sam is not thinking clearly, he knows he isn’t, but he can’t bring himself to care. He smiles at Dean, close to him, _too_ close, and there must be something in it that makes his brother flinch. Something insane, clearly, as out of control as Sam feels. 

Sam lunges forward. He crushes their mouths together violently and urgently, and it is not so much a kiss as it is a declaration of all the things Sam can’t – wouldn’t ever – put into words. 

It lasts for all of two seconds before Dean pushes him away, shoves him against the door again, eyes wide and frightened. “What...” he starts, just to stop himself, tongue darting out in a nervous gesture and wetting his lips, something he clearly didn’t mean to do, and his expression is so bewildered that Sam would laugh if he was capable of it. 

Sam closes his eyes, wanting to disappear, maybe go back to hell. Even being in the cage with Lucifer seems easier than facing Dean. Explanations or apologies are moot at this point, he just wants it all to be over. 

The silence seems to go on forever. Somewhere in a nearby apartment, a TV is running with some sitcom or another, faint laughter audible through badly soundproofed walls. An outdated clock is ticking on the opposite wall, every little click spanning an eternity, aeons passing by while Sam tries to keep up and loses count. Tries again only to give up when he realizes he’s already lost in every way that matters. When an agonized sound threatens to force its way out of his throat, he barely manages to keep it in.

“How long, Sam?” Dean finally asks in a whisper, and Sam feels his knees go weak.

“Too fucking long.” It’s difficult to recognize the hoarse, detached voice as his own.

“Five years, ten?”

Sam gives a little laugh, almost a sob. “Closer to fifteen, actually.”

“Fuck. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sam shakes his head, refuses to open his eyes.

“Sam. Sammy. I never knew...” Dean sounds almost tender, wondering. 

Sam tries to keep his tears from falling, but it’s hard, so hard. “You weren’t supposed to.” 

“Just me, or other guys, too?”

 _What does it matter?_ “You. Only ever you.”

Dean is silent for so long that Sam finally dares to open his eyes again. Slowly, Dean loosens his grip, hands going down to hang limply at his side. “Don’t go, Sam. Not anywhere, not now. I need you to stay here, okay?” A plea rather than a demand. He looks at Sam intently.

Sam nods slowly. After what he's just admitted to, it seems like a wonder that Dean wants him to stay, but Sam owes him – for not freaking out the way Sam expected him to, for not decking him the moment the truth came out – he owes him that much.

Dean turns around, looking lost with his shoulders hunched, face unreadable. He’s so obviously miserable it hurts to look at him. 

Sam slides downwards, legs too much like jelly weak to hold him upright any longer. His ass hits the floor and he suppresses a hiss, pain still sharp when he moves the wrong way, a reminder of what he did with his brother, a carnal sin if there ever was one.

“You’re still my brother”, Dean says from the fridge he’s turned to, resting his forehead at the cool metal. Lifting his head again, he looks at Sam, his gaze assessing and strangely determined. “That’s never going to change, you hear me, Sam? Sammy.”

Sam just stares at him, at a loss of what to say. Does Dean really think it’ll be that easy?

“The rest – I don't know. Gotta think about it. I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s gonna take me a while to get over this, yeah? Just, promise me not to leave, okay? Don’t run away.”

Sam doesn’t know if he can do this. “Don’t drown yourself in whiskey,” he replies, surprised when his voice comes out sounding next to normal. 

“Whoa, that’s harsh, Sam,” Dean protests, but his heart isn’t in it. He throws another a furtive glance at Sam. “Seriously. It’ll be okay, yeah? Just give me a little time to process.”

Sam can give him this, he can do this. He takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself that running isn’t what he needs to do. 

~~~~~

Days go by. They are on the road again, no signs of the Leviathans anywhere, but a couple of easy salt-and-burns. They do a half-assed job with these, but it feels like progress, like a promise that they’ll get over it as long as they try. 

Only that Sam doesn’t think they will. He dreams of Dean, more often than not, and they’re not only sex dreams. Those, too, but mostly it’s all the angsty shit you dream when you’re afraid of losing someone. 

Dean fucks a waitress in Nebraska, and Sam tries not to think about it. He knows she doesn’t mean anything, she’s Dean’s pathetic attempt to feign normalcy, and the apologetic glances Dean throws at him the next day have nothing in common with his usual cat-who-got-the-cream attitude whenever he managed to score with a girl.

It hurts nonetheless.

~~~~~

In Wyoming Dean climbs in his bed at night. 

“Shh,” he whispers. “Let me. Just let me.”

And Sam lets him. 

Dean’s mouth on his, Dean’s hands stroking him with nothing of the intuitive confidence he showed under the succcubus’ spell, but all the sweeter for it, tentative and shy, and Dean would be deeply ashamed if Sam called him on it. Sam comes apart under his hands and tries to keep himself from reaching out to hold on, and on, and on. 

In the end it’s Dean who can’t let go, who buries his head in Sam’s hair, saying things like “Yes, please,” and “I want you,” and “Sammy.”

~~~~~

_Two men on a king-sized bed in a run-down motel room, sleeping, curled up in each other, limbs tangled, hands splayed out possessively on smooth skin._

_Two men, the smell of sex and sweat and sleep, the sound of their breaths and the rustling of fabric when one of them moves a little, restless in his sleep._

_Waking in the early hours of dawn, their eyes meeting. Unguarded, words unspoken._

_You and me, this, forever. Determination underlining a vulnerability that is hardly ever shown._

_Seriously, Dean? Disbelief and amusement in a ghost of a smile, slowly turning into something sweet and shy and joyful._

_Yeah, Sammy. Shrugging - an attempt of casualness - eyebrow raising in defiance. They both know what it means._

_There will be no coming back from this._


End file.
